Page 19 of Intoxicated
Chapter 7
DREW
“Depends on how serious this guy is,” I say into my Bluetooth as I survey my South Waterfront apartment. “I’m not coming back up to Seattle for a meeting until I’m well underway with the current mark.” That’s right, I don’t say their names over the phone. A man never knows who might be listening. “If you hear from the guy in Vancouver again, tell him I could do a teleconference to go over any questions he may have, but I may be a bit delayed in getting back to Seattle. I also have a feeling this current job will take me until the end of June to complete.” That’s being generous. I’ll get into Cher’s panties right quick, but don’t expect her to fall in love with me. Let alone get her heart broken by me. Yet.
I saidyet!
Brent shuffles some papers in the background. No doubt he’s currently in our high rise office at Benton Leveraging, where from 10-3 he’s answering emails, cleaning the office, and flirting with God knows who on his personal cell. When I’m accepting new clients or in need of backup, Brent is the man who dives deep into research. The man used to be a reporter, for fuck’s sake. He knows where to scoop up information like a guy working at an ice cream parlor. “I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. You know how these guys are.”
“Yes, I do.” For every twenty inquiries I get, maybe one guy actually follows through. That’s the nature of the game. If it’s not the money that freaks them out, it’s knowing that I’m about to seduce their ex – whom they probably still love…probably –and fuck her up with my cock and attitude. Then out of the men who actually go for it, there’s that one weird guy who I’m pretty sure gets off on it. As long as he doesn’t send me pictures… well, Brent intercepts those things for me, anyway. “Like I said, keep me in the loop. Depending on how long this one takes me, it may be a while before I head up there.”
“How’s it going with her?”
I have a second date with her tomorrow. Here in my apartment, no less.”
“Sly dog,” Brent says with an audible grin. “Not a record, but dang fast.”
No, my record is a woman whom I convinced to marry me by the end of our first weekend together. We drove to Vegas, I left her at the altar, and had a very happy client on my hands. He didn’t care that his vengeful ex got over it within a couple of months and probably considers herself lucky for dodging a bullet now. He only cares that she got played by a professional player.
“Breaking her heart will take a miracle, honestly. She’s more closed than the North Korean border.”
“You always say you love a challenge. Especially a hot one, bro.”
“Yes. She’s definitely hot.”
“Iknow!I’ve seen her pics!”
I shake my head. “Are you about to head home? Let me know if Mr. Vancouver gets back to you. You know I don’t like leaving potential clients hanging.” Even if it goes nowhere, I’ll be damned if they go around badmouthing me for delayed communications.
“Heading home in T-minus ten minutes. I’ll tell Rick that you said hi, though you never do.”
“You’re not lying if I’m saying it in my heart, bro.” I lean against my kitchen counter, hand slapping against my chest. “Tell your husband I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to his wine tasting fundraiser. Busy with work, as you know.” I’m not entirely sure Rick knows what I do. Does his husband share everything with him? Like how I’m the master of bedding women and making them regret it?
Hm. There’s something to put on my dating CV.
I hang up and consider my planner, currently spread open on the island counter. My Tuesday – today – is largely free. Tomorrow, I have in big, red lettersCL.I think we both know what that stands for.
The current plan is to wine and dine her with some of my delectable cooking, not that I’ve decided what to make yet. Second? Start putting on the smooth moves while coming off as non-threatening as possible. I assume she’ll be doing much of the same. I have to look like I’m putting in effort, though. This is a woman who wants to play me. Suck me dry. Make me regret the day I ever heard her blasted, ‘90s throwback name. Don’t ever fall for her façade, though. Cher is no main character of a popular Shakespearean rewrite. She’s not inane enough to think “poor people just need more money,” although she probably would date her older stepbrother if he had enough money to beguile her.
I wonder how she looks in plaid…
Allow me to confess something to you: I don’t reallyenjoymy career. It’s something I’m good at. I feel like I have some moral obligation to follow through, and since I don’t need the money, most of it goes into breaking even on overhead and ensuring Brent gets to keep his high maintenance house-spouse. The rest goes into charities, some of them I’ve started in the Portland and Seattle areas. Homelessness, job corps, food banks and the like… if there’s one thing I’ve witnessed in these two cities growing up and striking out on my own, it’s that rising real estate costs mean more people in trouble. Good people, I suppose, although I don’t ask the people who benefit from my money to pass any bench tests. I occasionally have the urge to buy up otherwise empty apartment buildings and drop the rents on them so people can scramble for a place to live, but every time I start making a move, I’m reminded of how much I hate real estate.
Look at my family. Half of them are running around with dozens of properties beneath their belts, and they’re always complaining about it.
You know who else is always complaining, I bet?
